


Common

by PepperPrints



Series: Powerless [1]
Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 11:31:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperPrints/pseuds/PepperPrints
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post RE5 AU. The overdose of serum renders Wesker powerless instead, and a visitor comes to his prison cell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Common

**Author's Note:**

> For the 30_kisses challenge. Prompt: perfect blue. No warnings save for some referenced inebriation. There will be a continuation of this... eventually.

 In confines of his prison cell, Albert Wesker stared at his reflection.

 

What he believed to have been impossible was achieved: the virus had been purged from his body, courtesy of a wild gamble that Chris Redfield made in attempt to overthrow him. The injection that was forced into him had turned the virus in on itself, and it left him defeated – human: pitiful and common.

 

Wesker's frown deepened as he gazed into the mirror. For appearances, he hardly looked any different, but he knew the changes were there. He pressed the heel of his palm against his jaw and dragged his fingers over his cheek, feeling the vulnerable human flesh beneath his fingernails, which threatened to break with just the slightest amount of pressure. It would have been so easily torn, and not healed again for days.

 

There was one change that stood out, and it made his transformation obvious: his pupils remained as slits, but the color of his eyes had reverted; they were blue again.

 

_Years ago, when Wesker was in command of STARS, he had his glasses knocked aside in a minor struggle, and it was his Point Man who picked them up again when the confrontation ended._

 

“ _You okay, Captain?” he asked, and then the man suddenly wore such an exaggerated expression that it caused Wesker to pause._

 

“ _Do I not look okay?” Wesker said, holding out his hand for his glasses, which were quickly returned to him._

 

“ _No, nothing like that,” Chris had replied, and he grinned somewhat. “I just don't think I've actually seen your eyes before. They're blue – could've guessed.” Their fingers brushed when he handed Wesker his glasses, lingering. “Should take these off more often.”_

 

The memory drifted away as quickly as it came, and it left a rush of anger in its wake. Wesker reacted on furious instinct, his hand crashing down against the mirror, and he hissed out in unfamiliar agony as glass buried inside his flesh.

 

So weak.

 

–

 

“I hear they had to move you.”

 

Wesker turned his head slowly towards the voice. In his old body, he would have heard his visitor's approach long before he even reached Wesker's solitary confinement, but now he had no such advantage. He didn't know Chris was here at all until the man spoke, and he gazed at him, rather unmoved.

 

“It seems I am not to be trusted with even the basic necessities,” Wesker responded mildly, and he gestured his bandaged hand around his cell. Since the day he had broken the mirror, they stripped the space bare. “It all feels a bit dramatic.”

 

Chris crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing into a glare. “You're lucky to even have a cell,” he responded, the usual cheap bravado spilling from his mouth without much sense. “You don't look so good.” Wesker figured that was supposed to be vaguely threatening, for all the good it did. He sighed, leaning himself back against the wall.

 

“Surface damage, I can assure you,” he replied, holding up his injured hand to examine it. The glass did not go deep enough to cause real harm, though the aches were mildly irritating.

 

Wesker glanced up again to find Chris staring him down. “That's not what I meant.”

 

Chris did not say anything more than that, and Wesker certainly was not going to indulge him by asking him to elaborate. “Is there something you need, Chris?” he said instead, raising his knee up. “I have a busy schedule.” A little joke which hardly seemed appreciated, since Chris's scowl remained firmly in place.

 

Chris stepped forward, his hand reaching into his pocket. “That's what we're wondering, actually,” he said lowly, drawing out his phone and holding it up against the glass, letting Wesker see the screen. “Why is it that while you're in here, there's still new monsters out there?”

 

There it was. Wesker smiled slightly, watching as the video held towards him looped a mess of chaos and death. He hadn't exactly been allowed much entertainment since imprisonment, and it was good to see. “I am not sure which is more baffling, Chris,” he responded, idly toying with his bandages. “That you believe the actions of Umbrella die with me, or the idea that I would actually help you.”

 

A silence followed which Wesker did not entirely anticipate. Chris stood in place, tall and tense, and he glared down at him, not wavering as he met Wesker's gaze, blue on blue.

 

_Years ago, when Chris still had that youthful naivety fueling him, he had joined in with the other members of STARS to celebrate a victory with alcohol and then even more alcohol. It got to the point where Chris could not responsibly make his own way home. Wesker, since he had decided to not partake in these festivities, apparently became the designated driver by default._

 

“ _You're too impaired to drive yourself,” he chided when Chris made foggy protests about the captain of all people chauffeuring him. He urged Chris into the passenger side before getting in himself, and he heard the man scoff._

 

“ _You're one to talk,” chided Chris, and he leaned over across his seat, reaching out. “Are you going to drive at night with those on?”_

 

_No, Wesker supposed that was inadvisable. He let Chris pull his sunglasses off, finding the man to be pleasantly coordinated despite his inebriation. Chris just smiled at Wesker for a moment and his hand stayed against Wesker's cheek, the glasses clasped snug in his grip._

 

“ _That's better,” he decided, and he did not draw back, lingering this close to Wesker – too close.“I like your eyes.” It was affection eased by alcohol, unwise and compromising. Chris met his gaze, blue on blue, and he was smiling too widely. “They're unique.”_

 

“ _I like your sobriety,” responded Wesker, pleasantly enough, and it made Chris laugh.“It's quite common. Your eyes are blue as well.” Surely Chris was not so drunk that he could forget that._

 

_Chris was close enough that Wesker could feel the warmth of his breath against his mouth, and he could smell the alcohol – he could taste it when their lips touched._

 

“ _Not like yours.”_

 

“I have nothing for you, Chris,” he told him bluntly.

 

Chris pulled his phone away, turning off the video and tucking it back into his pocket. “Yeah, I figured,” he said lowly. “You're just another washed up reject, anyway.”

 

Anger washed over him so quickly that it was dizzying. The jibe was cheap, hardly anything inspired, but he still shot up to his feet. His speed was nothing like what it used to be, but it was fast enough, and he slammed his fist against the glass wall which separated himself from Chris. With the virus, that would have shattered in an instant, and here there was nothing; Chris did not even flinch.

 

“Be confident, while you can,” Wesker told him icily. “I know how the virus responds to my body. When the infection spreads, and it comes back to me, I will be a survivor. But what about you? How do you think your shallow gene pool will respond when it is forced into evolution?”

 

Chris's expression tightened, his lips thin, and Wesker wondered how desperately the man wanted to kill him. Wesker was only spared execution for this very reason: in case something monstrous was unleashed, and that his knowledge of these practices might save lives. That was, of course, under the misguided impression that Wesker would ever cooperate.

 

“Well?” he coaxed, and he saw the corners of Chris's lips twitch upward.

 

“You're bleeding.”

 

Wesker paused, glancing to his fist where it was pressed against the glass. He hadn't thought before he lashed out, and he had used his injured hand to strike. The pressure opened up the wounds; stains of red were spreading through the bandages, dripping down the glass and to the floor, spoiling the sterility of his cell. Slowly, Wesker drew his hand back, feeling the dull ache throbbing up his arm, and he realized his breaths were shallow.

 

“You're human too,” reminded Chris lowly, as he backed away from him, leaving down the hall. “Think about that.”


End file.
